


A Light Through The Fog

by Whoareyou0000



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Asexual Raphael Santiago, Depression, Homoromantic Raphael Santiago, Hurt Simon Lewis, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Simon, Pansexual Simon Lewis, Protective Raphael Santiago, Raphael Santiago Has Feelings, Raphael Santiago Speaks Spanish, Vampire Simon Lewis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25473820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whoareyou0000/pseuds/Whoareyou0000
Summary: A cloud of fog descends on Hotel Dumort when Simon faces the return of his depression. Just when he thinks he can't find his way out, Raphael takes his hand.
Relationships: Simon Lewis/Raphael Santiago
Comments: 4
Kudos: 169





	A Light Through The Fog

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Shadowhunters or any of the references to Jurassic Park or Mighty Mouse. For reference, Súper Ratón is spanish for Mighty Mouse, the famous cartoon character. 
> 
> Authors Note: WARNING: This fic contains references to attempted suicide (but no active attempts), depression, panic attacks, and anxiety disorder. If any of these topics are triggering for you, then you might want to skip this one. 
> 
> In short, someone prompted me to write about Simon and mental illness and this is what came out. Enjoy and let me know what you think!

It descends like a cloud of fog. 

Simon is sitting in the parlor strumming his guitar when the air thickens. He drags clumsy fingers up the strings, creating one last ominous sound, and places a shaking hand upon his throat. The expected lack of a pulse is, suddenly, unsettling. His nervous eyes slog across the room, past two empty chairs, three former windows now draped in weighty red and black fabrics and a dusty fireplace, and notices only darkness. A, heavy, bulbous, soundless, void. 

Without his music, the quiet is deafening. 

His enhanced vampire hearing picks up no movement, no response across the hotel. 

He is completely and devastatingly alone with his depression. 

Simon releases his guitar and it slithers down his trembling legs to the soft rug, giving a groan upon impact. His arms instead embrace his stomach as it ties itself into a tight knot and travels slowly up into his chest. This feeling is distantly familiar, a consequence of a diagnosis long forgotten in the wake of his death. The symptoms return to him like a flipbook created by his childhood self- silent tears, suffocating hopelessness, debilitating fatigue, and sadness that burrows deep into his soul. 

It nearly choked the life out of him once. 

Pills, he remembers. He took pills for this once when his blood flowed, and his body digested. Not a cure, but a treatment. He fumbles in his pocket, finds his phone, and scrolls through until he lands on Clary’s name. It rings, rings some more, and then ceases with a beep. There, he leaves a message about how it’s not life or death, but maybe life or torture, and he could use her help, but if not, as the great Goldblum says, life finds a way.

“Why am I like this?” He mumbles and puts the phone back in his pocket. Then he rubs sweaty hands over his face and digs fingers into his eye sockets. “Just be normal. Stop listening to your freakish brain and be happy. It’ll pass. It always passes.”

 _No, it won’t. No one cares about you. Just end it already,_ his brain supplies. 

Fingers thread up his forehead and into his hairline, scraping aggressively into his scalp. A vice tightens behind his eyes and he screws his lips. Fangs pop, puncturing his bottom lip and releasing a stream of red down his chin.

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. _Shut up!_ ” 

“Fledgling?” 

Simons laps up his own blood and peeks through a curtain of fingers to see Raphael standing in the doorway, a crease forming between his brows. His hair sticks up in certain places and his black, satin pajama pants hang loosely on his hips. A simple gray t-shirt covers his toned chest.

“Who are you talking to, Baby?”

Simon wipes at his mouth, licks his lips, and wills his fangs back into his gums. 

“What? Uh, no one. Myself. Its, uh…” He snaps his fingers and blinks away the fog. “Hey, have you heard of chaos theory? Who knows why things happen, butterflies flap and that makes water droplets fall and dinosaurs turn into birds. When you think about it why question anything when it’s all anarchy?” 

He raises his eyebrows at the end, curious if Goldblum will save him yet again. Raphael barely responds to the rant, obviously far too used to Simon at this point, and strides into the room with his hands nestled in his pockets. His narrow stare never leaves the fledgling until he’s about a foot away and glances briefly at the ground. 

“Your guitar is on the floor.” 

“Uh, right.” Simon blinks at the discarded instrument and grabs it at once, pulling it onto his lap. “My hands needed a rest.” 

Raphael squints and strides forward. “Is there something wrong with your hands?” 

He takes the cushion beside the fledgling and faces him, palms up and ready to examine the problem. Simon feels the urge to sit on his fingers like a petulant child. Instead, he flexes them over the smooth wooden neck and lightly plucks a string with a nail. Then he returns his gaze to Raphael with his best _see, everything’s fine_ expression. Raphael returns it with a suspicious frown and then backs off. They sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Simon sags into the couch beneath the growing weight in his chest. He feels dark eyes on him, studying his movements, and swallows his stomach back down.

Finally, a haggard sigh leads into a demand. 

“You’re a fledgling. If something’s wrong, then you need to tell me right away. It’s my responsibility to look after you, not _Clarissa’s.”_

Raphael’s voice tightens at the mention of Clary. Simon laughs, a nervous habit, and blinks away the stabbing pressure in his forehead. 

“Look, I’m not gonna, like, go on a neck biting spree or anything, okay? It’s not like that.” 

Raphael angles towards Simon again, apparently encouraged by his vague-as-possible response. If the vampire breathed, Simon would feel it on his cheek. If Raphael had body heat, he’d gravitate towards him like a plant to the sun. He does anyway. 

“Then what is it like?” 

It’s stupid how much that simple question, said in Raphael’s monotone voice, touches Simon. How the floodgates break all at once. He releases his guitar again, this time creating a higher pitched whine, and then flexes nervous fingers against his thighs. 

“It’s…it’s like being underwater and I’m drowning. I know I don’t need to breathe, but it still hurts. Opening my eyes is exhausting and everything is hopeless. My entire body aches and the things that I love, like playing guitar, feel pointless.” The words come out so naturally, like an exhale, and Raphael moves closer to receive them. “There’s this voice in my head that tells me to do really bad things to myself. Not like Camille or anything, it’s my own voice, just villainous.”

The silence expands. Simon wishes he’d kept his guitar if only to break the tension. Then a hand is on his arm and a thumb is caressing the scar on his wrist, a wound that not even death can erase. 

“What kinds of things does it tell you to do?” 

Simon swallows, his head now swimming. He focuses on the skin to skin contact, taking pleasure in the proof that he is not alone, and exhales another confession.

“I was in a hospital once. I cut my wrist because I wanted to die. I chickened out before I got to the other one.” He finds the courage to lift his head and gives a small, nervous smile. Raphael meets him with warm, kind eyes. “They put me on medication. It helped and I was okay for a long time. When I was turned, I guess I thought I’d be cured or something. I mean, vampires are supposed to heal themselves, right?” 

Raphael’s face softens into a comforting, gentle smile. The sharp edges blunt, making him look his mundane age, and he purses his lips while considering his response. A total of three people know of Simon’s condition, now four, and this is the first time he’s truly felt accepted. 

“We can’t heal everything, Baby.” His touch on Simon’s wrist is so feather-light that it gives him goosebumps. “Mental illness, especially, seems to stick with us. That doesn’t mean that you have to suffer, though.” 

Raphael stands and Simon reflexively grabs his hand, suddenly desperate to keep his calming presence close. Raphael squeezes back and gives a coy smirk.

“It’s okay, Simon.” He nods towards the door. “Come on, I have something to show you.”  


They leave the parlor, pad quietly down the hallway, and stop in Raphael’s private office. The clan leader tugs the fledgling straight to the small fridge. He punches a code into the keypad, still holding tightly to Simon’s hand, and unlocks the door easily. Inside there are rows of blood packets hanging from long peg hooks. Each hook holds a label and Simon recognizes the names of some familiar medications.

If his heart could skip, it would have right then. 

“This is our pharmacy.” Raphael gestures vaguely as he takes in Simon’s dazed stare. “In the evening you’ll meet Gerald. He’s our resident psychiatrist with over 50-years of experience between his mundane and afterlife. He’ll figure out your dosage and help you should you have any side effects. What’s your drug of choice?”

Raphael quirks his lip, the only indicator that he’s made a joke. Simon finds himself smiling too as a glimmer of hopes shines through the fog. “Lexapro?” 

The clan leader drops Simon’s hand with a reassuring squeeze and pieces through the bags until he finds the group marked with the drug’s name. He counts them silently and then gives a nod. 

“We have plenty to get you started and I’ll make sure you don’t run out. Vampires metabolize differently than mundanes. You won’t need to drink as much as often to feel the effect.” Then Raphael pockets a bag labeled _Zoloft,_ locks the refrigerator, and gestures for Simon to follow. “For now, you should get some sleep.”

Raphael moves away. Simon’s feet become boulders. The thought of returning to that void alone paralyzes his body. He gulps a breath he doesn’t need, though his brain isn’t so convinced, and his palms grow slippery with sweat. Eyes bugging under the pressure, he struggles against the heaviness settling in his gut. Though he attempts to form words, all he can do is stammer loud enough to gain Raphael’s attention. 

Then there is a brush of cold skin and their fingers knot together. Another hand cups the back of his head and threads through the tuft of wayward hair as their foreheads meet. Finally, Simon can move again. 

“Shh…esta bien bebé. You’ll stay with me tonight. For as long as you wish.” Raphael’s intense chocolate eyes will the message into Simon’s rebelling brain and loving fingers squeeze his neck just firmly enough to reassure. “You’re mine and I won’t leave you alone when you’re in pain.”

Simon nods, the brick in his stomach already dissolving, and gives an encouraging, sniffling smile. Raphael returns the gesture as his hand climbs up Simon’s head and ruffles his hair, earning a real laugh straight from the fledgling’s gut. 

They take the stairs up to Raphael’s room and he locks the door behind. Simon shifts from foot to foot awkwardly, as the older vampire takes a crystal glass from the bedside table and retrieves the blood bag from his pocket. He pours the liquid inside and swallows it with all the grace of royalty. Simon’s mouth kicks in before his rational thought, of course, and he blurts out the first, entirely too personal, question that comes to mind. 

“Wait, so you have depression too?” 

Raphael puts the glass aside and pieces through a stack of neatly folded shirts within his extensive wardrobe. 

“Anxiety, actually.” He holds up a neutral pair of sweatpants, glancing from the clothing to Simon and back. “Mi mama used to call me her _pequeño ratón,_ little mouse, because I never stopped fidgeting and worrying.” He pulls a matching shirt and approaches Simon with an armful of black and gray. “Most doctors didn’t treat such symptoms when I was a mundane, even if they did my family couldn’t afford it, so it wasn’t until I had my first panic attack in front of Magnus that I learned about my illness.” 

Simon accepts the pajamas and smiles encouragingly, his heart swelling at the this new and, utterly beautiful, side to his clan leader. Raphael steps back and raises a playful eyebrow and Simon swears he's the first vampire to ever blush. 

“Right. Hey, uh…could you maybe, um, turn around?” Raphael sighs theatrically and rolls his eyes before playing along. Simon faces the wall too, because suddenly the thought of stripping down in front of his clan leader triggers all sorts of overhelmingly pleasant feelings. “Thanks.” 

The fledgling kicks off his shoes and devests of his NASA T-shirt while projecting his own nerves through speech. “You know I read somewhere that mice can sense sadness in other mice. A mouse will go out of its way to help and console another. They’re one of the most empathetic animals, even more so than some mundanes I bet.” 

“Is that so?” Raphael’s voice sounds farther away. Curious, Simon hurries to free his legs next, nearly falling over before escaping the skinny jeans. When he’s finally wrapped in the older vampire's pajama's, he quickly turns to see him pulling the bedcovers down. Simon retrieves his discarded clothing, places it neatly on a chair, and makes a move.

“Yea.” Simon approaches with his head down and his hands wringing. “So, uh, maybe _ratón_ isn’t the worst nickname for you. You sensed that I needed help. If you hadn’t come to check on me…well I don’t know what I would have done. You’re basically my hero.”

When Simon reaches the bed and finally gains the courage to look up, he finds Raphael watching him with such fondness that his heart nearly beats. Those big eyes, the color of coffee sweetened just right, pin Simon down, as if daring him to challenge their doting intent. The older, decidedly beautiful, vampire parts his lips and licks the crease to produce a command. 

“You’re _my_ fledgling.” It comes out hoarse and matter of fact. There is no arguing. It is simply a promise that Simon is Raphael’s in every possible way and that he'll never have to face his demons alone. “Are you coming to bed?”

They crawl in together, Simon snuggling under the blankets and Raphael preferring to stay on top. The younger stares at the ceiling and scoots quietly closer to the older until they're nearly sharing a pillow. They’re silent for some time, the edges of sleep slowly overtaking them both, when Raphael finally breaks. 

“Fine, you can call me _ratón._ As long as you promise that you will come to me if your depression tells you to hurt yourself again.” 

Simon grasps Raphael’s hand in the darkness, entwining their fingers upon their connected thighs. 

“I promise." The fledgling grows an embarrassingly goofy smile. "Hey Raph, if I pinkie promise, can I call you _Súper Ratón?_ ” 

Raphael’s long-suffering sigh lures Simon into a peaceful slumber as the fog begins to lift.


End file.
